“Everyone?”
“Even you.”
“How much blunt did you get from the last take?” William asked. “And do you have it on you?
“About seven hundred pounds,” Silas smirked. “Great minds think alike.”
While wrapping his wrists with thick strips of linen, he watched Silas go over and talk to the bookmaker who held a quill over the page. After a quick conversation, the man took a pouch and counted the money, and Silas headed back to him.
“The other bounder, some blunder namedRickyfrom Kent, has put up his house,” Silas shrugged. “I guess he is out of blunt.”
“Another house, eh?” William said, tightening a strap. “It’s probably some tumbledown hut not even worth the land it’s on.”
“Either way,” Silas shrugged. “It is an asset you can sell off later. Just get your head on top of the game, old boy.”
The rules of prizefighting were simple: fight until you had the other man on his back. Certain maneuvers—such as hitting below the belt, once overlooked in the street brawls—were now prohibited, and the match ended when a fighter was knocked or thrown off his feet.
“Get that man out by the sixth round,” Silas advised. “If you have to, stretch it to the eighth and let the bets roll in, but that is it. Do not let the man get to round ten.”
Nodding decisively, William bounced on his feet, when a flicker from the corner of his eye had him turning—and he spotted a familiar face. The boy he had trounced a few weeks ago stepped into the ring. He did not look as sallow as he’d been before—he somehow looked… worse.
His skin was an ill yellow and his eyes were jumpy. His thin wiry frame had muscles, but William did not know if the lad could manage the intense bout about to begin.
“You? How did you manage to get in?” William called over the crowd. “I was sure someone would have knocked you out of the Circuit by now.”
“I won all the matches after you,” Ricky sneered. “I am not the weakling you clearly think I am.”
“My mistake, but are you sure about this, lad?” he asked.
“I am nolad,” Ricky spat. “I came to win, and to prove it, I have my house up on the betting bridge.”
A part of William wanted to take it easy with the young man, but he knew both of them had come into this match knowing it was all or nothing—and both had to do whatever they could to win.
His competitive spirit rallied at the thought. He could not risk his stability and advancement for someone else’s comfort. He had to win this and then get to the finals. Preferably without any overt bruises or woundings on his face. “Well then—” He struck out his hands and their hands met in a firm grip. “Let’s begin.”
The bell rang and the umpire commenced the match, but Ricky did not try the usual testing jabs with William and threw himself into the fight, letting his fists fly. Startled, William found himself on the defensive end, fending off frenzied blows until his back was against the rope.
A round of jeers had William gritting his teeth; this was not good. He dodged a flying punch and used the flat of both fists to force Ricky to stumble back. He pressed his advantage, rushing in with a controlled force of blows, jab-hook-uppercut combinations.
Ricky avoided the first two, but the uppercut sent him flying.
“Round to Marauder!” the Umpire called.
Bouncing on his feet, William grasped the desperation reeking from Ricky. The man was desperate to win, but William could not give him the pleasure. The umpire commenced the next round and William punched with precise, timed blows, landing them in a fierce, rhythmic staccato.
By round six, Ricky’s eyes had taken on a manic edge and he moved without tactic, leaving himself open to blows—and unpredictable in delivering them.
When William’s blow struck Ricky’s shoulder, a blinding hook snapped his head back and he stumbled into the ropes. Lights blinked in his vision, and he barely heard the boos, hoots and shouts.
He shook the sweat from his eyes and rallied, swung, trying to trick Ricky into a feint, but the man knocked away the fake punch and drove in again with a barrage of jabs that battered his breastbone and abdomen. He made the mistake of twisting his head the wrong way and took a blow to his brow.
Stunted, he had to grab the rope to steady himself and felt a trickle of blood slip down his temple.
“Come on, William,” he cursed himself as his head sang with pain. “You cannot lose, not now, not here.”
“Round to Ricky,” the Umpire shouted.
It was four to two, and William remembered Silas’s advice; he had to cut this off,now.
